Terrible Praise Page 7

  I rip my face away with growl and blood gurgles in the back of Andrew’s throat. I leave him rolling about on his back for a moment, clenching the wound in his hands while I straighten my black blouse. I walk over to the reflection in the darkened window, sweeping up my pale blond hair and tucking it back into place. I take a deep breath to extinguish the residual burn in my chest, tamping down the memory of Christine.

  Behind me, Andrew falls to the ground, spitting and coughing up bright blood upon the floor. I kneel beside his head. The carpet hemorrhages around us in crimson pools. He weeps silently and grips his throat, the fear of death outweighing his self-importance so that he takes my hand and pleads for life with his eyes. His breaths grow deep and slow, the flush of panic licked away as the pallor of near exsanguination settles in his lips, and darkens the skin around his stricken eyes.

  With marked reluctance, I tear the skin of my wrist and lament that I must part with even a single drop of what I have taken. I press my wrist against the wound, and his body stills as the skin begins to mend. He cannot move much. He can barely raise his head, although he tries. His recovery will be greatly hastened with my blood circulating in him—not that I expect his gratitude. I settle on both knees next to him as my own wound seals itself, and stare down at his face.

  “I am glad we had this talk, Andrew.” I take his limp hand in mine. “I trust it is one we will not need to have again.”

  His eyes widen and he manages a slow shake of his head. He pulls his hand away to run a cautious finger across his flesh that only moments before left him writhing in hopeless agony.

  “Excellent.” I pat his chest and lean over him, stroking his shiny bald head. The good-natured gleam of my recent feed fades into deadly calm. “Because if I am forced to revisit this matter, I promise you, the pain I put you through just now will look like a blessing compared to what I do to your beloved Christine.”

  Andrew nods as vigorously as he is able. There will be bruising and discomfort, but he will live. He tries to sit upright, and flops back to the floor. I pat his head and stand up. With the incriminating ledger in hand, I retrieve my herringbone blazer from the back of the chair, and tuck the document away. I stand above him for a moment, poised to leave, content to let him cower.

  “One more thing, Andrew. Mr. Radu demands a forty percent increase in the Caymans account by the end of the year.”

  The protest is there, thick on his tongue, but he thinks better of arguing. He licks his dry lips. “Consider it done,” he says in a voice no more than a rustle even to my ears.

  I walk over to the door and open it slightly. His frantic pups clamber atop one another and scamper over to him, licking the blood drying on his neck.

  “See you next quarter, Andrew.”

  He musters something resembling a wave, bringing his hand up to push away the eager hounds. I close his office door behind me and leave the house very much as I found it, excluding the soiled carpet.

  I make my way quickly around the block to my vehicle, concealed in the underbrush of an overgrown bike trail. Even now, in the peaceful night air that winds around my hair, I see Christine’s infant face peering up at me with disarming calm. That force in my chest, seizing my empty lungs, burning up the back of my throat. I close my eyes and push the memory to the furthest corner of my mind.

  I feel infected, poisoned by Andrew. Like a parasite has slithered through his blood and wormed its way into my heart. The image of his child leaves me raw and exposed. The utterly foreign sense of affection I had for Christine as an infant safe in her father’s arms causes an intrusive unhelpful panic in me.

  I focus on the sounds around me. Crickets sing in the tall grass. The sleepy sweep of swaying branches, the soft scurrying of rodents, the distant sounds of traffic in the city. I filter everything else out, all the noise in my head. And in that soothing din, a question comes unbidden, yet another invasion of my thoughts. Did Elizabeth feel intruded upon, panicked like this when she stared into my eyes?

  The second my mind whispers her name my anger returns in full.

  “Elizabeth.” It was one thing to see her scrawny frame pulled into my dreams, to feel her fear as though it were my own. But this? To sense her presence with me on a hunt? To have her affections and humanity violate my mind in the middle of a feed?

  I can almost sense her movements, buried deep inside the hospital. Bone-weary, and troubled, so far from me and yet, near enough at heart that I could reach out my hand and touch her. Close enough to crush, if the mood struck me. That conflict is more than I can handle this evening. Her emotions bleeding between my carefully constructed walls have stolen my peace.

  Feeding is not a science, but a dance, an exchange between my victim and me. In the beginning, I was often moved to tears I could not shed by the flashes of a life lived, what might have been, what almost was, and all the promise of potential both realized and wasted. Over time the mind develops compartments, like callouses. Doors are shut, others are opened wide, and in the end, there is only blood.

  What troubles me more than my incongruous compassion for the infant Christine is the guilt. I have always seen Andrew as an investment, as Fane’s property. Never as a father belonging to his child. My contempt for him, the absolute vindication that comes with the taking of a life were taken from me tonight, and I cannot help but wonder what price I will pay next. This connection with Elizabeth was entirely my doing, invited the moment I gave my name. There is no escaping that truth, and only one way out of it that I can fathom. But Elizabeth is absolutely the last person I wish to see right now, and I recognize the cowardice for what it is, whether it belongs to me entirely or not.

  I slide inside my vehicle and shut myself away. There is just enough time for a second hunt, a proper kill, one that will bring me the bliss that is rightfully mine. It should be Elizabeth’s cold corpse in my trunk. I know this, even as I pull my car onto the empty road and drive toward the south end of the city.

  * * *

  I arrive at an old haunt in what was once the Irish district. A pub that has stood for nearly a hundred years, tucked between two darkened alleyways. The sort that blasts sterile electronic music on the weekends to lure the college crowd, and awful karaoke every other day. The walls are lined with framed pictures of the ale that coats the floor in a fresh wax. The stools are sprinkled with crushed peanut husks, and the only sound to rival the drunken screams of over-served patrons is the distracting clatter of billiards. Places like this are always so blessedly dim that no one notices the oddity of my iris-less eyes. So dark, in fact, that these very people will be unable to give an accurate description of the soon-to-be-departed when the police inevitably come calling—holding up photos of a single lost soul in a sea of so many self-involved ones.

  The bartender casts a narrow-eyed glare in my direction. An older man, with a haggard face and steel-colored hair stiff as straw, pulled into a sloppy ponytail. He looks like an unattractive copy of my eldest brother, Bård. This man has seen—or believes he has—my kind before: well-dressed, clearly searching, always arriving alone and leaving with a gentleman on my arm. He ignores me, offering his services to several customers without another glance my way. Not that it matters. What I want is not a draft he has on tap.

  The bartender continues his argument with his current customer who is furious that the machine dispensing prophylactics in the men’s room has stolen his last quarter, at which point, the gruff barkeep chances a second look in my direction. His apparent disapproval is as comical as it is inaccurate. If I were a man he would welcome me, he would offer a brew on the house. And when I left on the arm of some undeniable beauty, he would tell stories of my conquest to his regulars and eagerly await my return. I should leave with a woman tonight, just to see his reaction.

  I flick the empty carcass of a cracked shell across the top of the bar and it pings against a squat bottle of Knob Creek. I am looking for a brawl this evening. I want someone young, virile. Or older, perhaps, with a face as
calloused as his hands. A man with a short fuse and a foul mouth who will curse, and try to crush my chest with his fists before I break his arms. I want a firm grip around my neck before I snap his back in two. Someone who will not go quietly into the abyss that awaits him.

  Everyone has a preference.

  I have siblings who love the seduction a woman requires. They live for the chase, the skill it takes to convince a woman to trust and forget the warnings that have been drilled into them since before they were old enough to speak in sentences. For me, those kills are too cerebral when they should be feral, and too pitiful when the target realizes in her final moments that her mother was right to fill her with such deep apprehension of the world.

  My mark finds me before I find him, moving deliberately in my direction and pretending to chase the bartender with his order. He makes it so easy. I know when he settles on the stool next to mine with five dollars peeking from his shirt pocket that he is here alone, buying only for himself. He is not a regular. The hand he positions in front of my face has no ring, no pale indentation in the flesh either. He will not be slipping into the house, in the early morning hours, to crawl into bed beside a gently snoring wife. When he looks at me and finds my eyes already settled on his face he smirks, and turns his whole body to me. He keeps one elbow propped comfortably on the bar, feeling assured that tonight will play out exactly as he desires, that his luck has taken a turn.

  He has no idea.

  “Dennis,” he shouts, holding his hand out to me. There is a moment of hesitation after I shake his hand, a noticeable silence on my part. I am wary of even supplying an alias anymore, and this simple exchange is just one more reminder of Elizabeth and what she holds. What I gave to her.

  “Kathryn.”

  “Really? That’s my mother’s name.” He smiles with nicotine-yellowed teeth and runs his fingers around the edges of his black beard. That is not his mother’s name, and I wonder at the reason behind this lie. Perhaps to gain trust, establish a connection through coincidence. Whatever the motivation, he has used it before.

  The bartender sticks his sweaty face between us.

  “Rolling Rock, and whatever she’s having,” he yells over the ruckus into the barkeep’s ear. The bartender does not ask my order, but he does wait for it.

  “Nothing for me, thank you.” I wave the old fellow off and turn in my seat toward Dennis. He seems puzzled by my lack of indulgence, and concerned that his chances may not be as strong as he hoped if I am sober.

  “Not a big drinker?” he hedges, leaning in close to be heard without having to shout. Despite the clamor of our bustling surroundings, I could hear his heartbeat from the parking lot if I wished. But I stay near to him, enjoying his scent. Nicotine and motor oil, laced with beer.

  “Something like that,” I tease, speaking directly into his ear. My fingers toy with the frayed edges of his yellowed shirt. He leans back slightly with that same smirk and takes another lazy swig of ale.

  “What do you do for a living?” he asks, emboldened by my casual touches. He rests his hand just above my knee. I am grateful that Andrew’s blood on my pants has dried on the drive over. I hook my calf around the leg of his stool and pull him forward. He masks his surprise well as I stare up into his face.

  “Investment banker.” The secret to any lie is a healthy dose of the truth. “And what about you?”

  Dennis slips off the stool to stand between my knees, peering down at me and seeming to enjoy it very much. He feels powerful, desired. I know he is a mechanic of some sort before he tries to over-complicate his job title. Choosing his words carefully to make himself sound like an expert in a specialized field, the effort is more sad than endearing.

  Dennis wastes time with small talk. Where he grew up, why he moved to the city. As if I care. I lose myself in the beating of his heart, counting his long black eyelashes. I watch the jump of his carotid artery every time he swallows. He is a man aged well beyond his years, an ex-convict as indicated by his choice of tattoos, though he does not mention his incarceration. A hard life has peppered his temples prematurely with long white hairs.

  There is an edge to his voice, a malice beneath each word that I cannot place. A strict mother he hates, a father who beat him. He has scars that curl like teeth on his knuckles, and he lies about the various engine parts that caused them when he catches me staring. His hands and arms are covered in thick, black hair. It peeks out from beneath the collar of his shirt too. His nose is strong, but badly misshapen, clearly broken more than once and never properly set. After much rambling on his part—and feigning interest on mine—Dennis swallows harshly and gathers his courage. He twines his fingers around a lock of my hair and pushes it over my shoulder.

  “Do you wanna get out of here?” he husks. I smile up at him, and I know he senses something—a mischief that does not belong in a smile—but he is too aroused to worry about it.

  “That is precisely what I want.”

  Noting that he does not step back when I stand up against him, I fish a folded bill from my pocket. I settle his tab, leaving a more than generous tip for the cantankerous bartender. When Dennis chances a look at the bill he makes a move to refuse the money, but I pull him along by the wrist behind me as we make our way to the exit.

  With slightly more force than I should show, I push past the patrons blocking my way. The strength of my grip and my assertiveness vex Dennis, who tries and fails to drag his feet. Before we make it around the building to my vehicle his hand twists out of my hold, and I know he will push me against the crumbling wall of the tavern’s exterior before he realizes it himself. He positions his body flush against mine and I allow the display of dominance, congratulating myself on another successful hunt. He is every bit the bully I suspected.

  “What’s your rush?” He runs his rough hand down the side of my face and over the top of my breast. I look up the alley toward the street. The city has grown quiet this evening, and apart from the smokers shuffling under the bar’s awning, completely out of view, I cannot hear the footfall of pedestrians. In the distance, charged like static, is the familiar buzz of police radios already distracted by domestic violence and assorted gang activity. We are alone, Dennis and I, and if I do not have to mar my vehicle’s interior with his dirty work boots, I see no reason why he should be alive for the drive ahead.

  “No rush.” I tilt my chin up and push my hips against him. He peers down into my eyes, taken aback by my forwardness and clearly uncertain as to whether he likes it or not. Regardless he brings his lips to mine, and his breath tastes like metal on my tongue.

  “No?” he asks, grabbing the back of my thighs to hoist me up against the wall. “You always leave a forty-five-dollar tip on five?” He shoves me forcefully against the bricks. I do not grimace, or squeal in alarm, much to his dismay. His actions are met with my throaty laugh. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and flick his top lip with my tongue.

  “Always.”

  A low groan rumbles in his barrel chest as he pushes his tongue unceremoniously into my mouth. I am content to receive him, for now, and tilt my head back as I tug at the hair on the back of his head. He drags his wet mouth down the skin of my neck, and another listen for would-be witnesses ends in blissful silence. I whisper his name into his ear, and trail my tongue against the black bristles covering his jaw. His pulse beats against my lips and I revel in the cadence, the steady rhythm with my mouth pressed against his throat, before I tear him open with my teeth. Dennis drops the arm that holds me, and my feet hit the asphalt with a thud. A firm hand over his mouth all but silences his enraged screams, and I keep him in place with an arm locked around his shoulders. He uses all his considerable weight to pull me away from the wall and throw me against it as hard as he can manage, my scalp splitting and just as quickly it mends.

  Dennis is not so fortunate. The force of his own shove brings his forehead harshly against the brick and a flap of skin peels away from his skull. His knees quiver and begin to sink to the
ground. I keep him locked against my body, looking for all the world like two lovers caught in a passionate embrace. The truth is there, swimming in his blood—his sordid past, his violent youth, his young face already cruel. I pay them as little mind as I can.

  With a final volley of fortitude, Dennis brings his fist from around his back and slams it hard against my ribs. The first blow shatters three metacarpals, the second fractures his wrist and the third barely serves to jostle my footing. His weight settles in my arms, his hands fall limply at his sides as the blood that rushes with white heat begins to slow until, regrettably, the fount is all but a trickle past my teeth. I release my hand covering his mouth and true to form, Dennis’s last breath is a string of broken obscenities.

  My fangs recede into my gums and with a long-contented sigh I lean against the brick wall. Dennis’s head drops against my shoulder and I bunch the front of his shirt in both hands to keep him from collapsing.

  My revelry is short-lived. Pleased as I am to have a proper feed, we are exposed here. I wrap my arm around his waist and hit the trunk release on my key fob. I hold him just above the ground as we round the back of the building, a loyal girlfriend or a close acquaintance carrying a blacked-out drunk to his ride. But the parking lot is vacant, and I throw him over my shoulder. His mud-caked boots make a high-pitched squeak when I shove him feet first onto the rubber lining of my trunk. I attempt to rearrange his limbs twice to close the lid, forced to dislocate both his shoulders and his hips for the lock to catch.

  With both hands resting on the closed compartment, I muse. If I picked smaller victims, I would not have this problem.

  * * *

  Carrington Funeral Home is a long drive, but my family has frequented this establishment for the last forty years. Derek Carrington, the proprietor, is a quick, efficient and above all, respectful young man. He speaks when spoken to, asks very few questions and the matter of the body is handled as smoothly as any other transaction.